


Put your hands into the fire

by zanzibar



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, James Neal is a failboat, M/M, Paulie's epic JBF hair, kryptonite glasses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-21 12:05:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zanzibar/pseuds/zanzibar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s not entirely sure why Paul has a house in the Cities when the last time [the only time] he saw him it was definitely in a hotel and he definitely abandoned James there to go to the airport.</p><p>In which James is not sure who Paul is, until he's entirely sure exactly who he is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put your hands into the fire

**Author's Note:**

> This is almost 9000 words, mainly because good god Paul Martin [ looks like this](http://1.cdn.nhle.com/penguins/images/upload/2013/06/Locker-clean-out-6-9-13-3.jpg) and I have no other excuses.
> 
> Title shamelessly ripped from the Thirteen Senses song of mostly the same name.

James loves spring in Minneapolis. It’s like the slightest warming of the air and the appearance of the sun brings everyone in the city out from their winter of hibernation and darkness and discontent and he’s once again reminded of why he chose to come to this place.

He’s out at the Rialto with his boys, it’s a random Thursday night in May, the garage doors that line the alley are open halfway and there’s just a hint of warm breeze blowing through. They have a pitcher of beer, 3 tables pushed together and a mostly decimated plate of nachos. He’s managing a comfortable buzz, kicked back, arm stretched across the back of an empty chair watching a couple of the guys play darts.

Though he’s been paying a sort of lazy attention to the comings and goings of the crowd as the evening grows later he gets distracted with a competitive game of shuffleboard. He and Kyle celebrate with a single tequila shot and another pitcher of beer after they’ve fulfilled their victorious destiny.

When he relaxes back into his chair and scans the room again there’s a new group of guys occupying the corner booth across from them. There’s 4 of them gathered around the table having what appears to be an intense conversation about either the channel selection or the golf replay that’s playing on half the TV’s. 

There’s one guy that catches his eye - he’s wearing a black t-shirt and has messy red hair and a matching beard. He’s sitting at the bend in the corner booth and from the looks of it he’s one of the quieter guys in the group, content to drink his beer and watch the animated conversation around him. He cracks a playful half-smile at something someone says and he’s so good-looking that when he looks up from the table James has to duck his head and fumble for his beer just to have something to do with his hands.

James gets roped into playing pool and emboldened by the warm flush of beer, 2 shots of tequila and a blessedly short memory he catches the eye of the mystery man while he’s making his way around the pool table to play his shot. James smiles broadly and the man blushes, clearly embarrassed to have been caught.

James plays his shot, whiffs the second and then stands back to offer some friendly chirping while RJ circles the table assessing angles and ball placement like they’re on some ESPN billiards special instead of hanging out at their favorite sports bar on a weeknight.

When RJ proceeds to scratch on the cueball James and Jay laugh so hard that James has to bend over and draw deep breaths, when Jay steps up to take his turn James straightens and steals a glance, just in time to see the mystery man turning back to his friends.

Just before he takes his final turn he’s the one who gets busted staring. Instead of being embarrassed James rests his chin on his pool cue and raises an eyebrow, he’s rewarded with a quicksilver flash of white teeth that he can’t help returning.

Later James leans against the bar waiting for the bartenders attention. The crowd is growing progressively bigger, but also maintaining the kind of mellow, low-key vibe that James associates with midwesterners in general and Minnesotans especially.

The mystery man is across the bar from him and this time when they make eye contact the mystery man raises his empty pitcher in a mock salute and James tips his glass back and they just smile at each other dopily for a minute before the bartender comes back with James’ now-full pitcher and change and he heads back to his friends.

When he looks up again the mystery man’s table is empty and he scans the room with just a minute of disappointment. He spots them lingering at the doorway, waiting for a group of noisy coeds to decide whether they’re staying or going. Two of the man’s companions are looking a little frustrated at the delay but James catches the eye of the red-head one more time and his heart races a little when the man tips his head to the side and gestures toward the door.

James flashes a grin and turns back around to assess the scene at his table. For the most part the guys he’s with are either embroiled in some kind of 5-ball pool game competition or developing a weirdly complex set of rules to enable them to play 3 person air-hockey.

The bar has grown progressively louder and he’s sitting at the opposite end of the table from most of the group. Instead of trying to tell them he’s leaving, he taps twice on the table and when Kyle looks up he tips his head toward the door, tugs on his jacket and disappears into the crowd headed for the door.

This, it should be noted, is not James’ forte. He doesn’t pick up random hot guys at bars. He doesn’t even get picked up by random hot guys at bars. It turns out that he’s pretty awkward when it comes to anything related to picking up. To date, his most impressive hot guy in a bar hookup feat is usually scrawling his phone number on a napkin for someone who didn’t ever actually call.

Bearing this in mind he tucks his hands in his pockets and tries to gauge the odds that the guy is going to be waiting for him outside versus the fact that it’s going to turn out he’s terrible at actually interpreting body language and the guy was really trying to figure out if that particular door was the only way out.

He’s pleasantly surprised when he springs himself from the crowd at the door and finds the guy alone, leaning against a bus shelter just a little past the entrance to the bar. He’s wearing dark jeans and his shirt is just tight enough to see the smooth slide of muscles when he raises a hand slightly in greeting. Up close he’s almost disturbingly more attractive than from across the bar. James shoves a hand through his hair and sends up a quick thank you that he threw on his favorite jeans and a polo instead of the frayed shorts and t-shirt he was wearing earlier.

“Hi,” the guy pushes off the wall he’s leaning against and sticks out his hand, “I’m Paul.”

“James,” he isn’t sure he’s actually expecting sparks, but romantic comedies are a hangover guilty pleasure and Paul’s hand is just warm and smooth and his handshake is strong.

“My friends had to head home - we passed a Coldstone on the walk over, want to get ice cream?” James laughs a little, he’s well on his way to being a grown-ass man, and this super hot guy is asking him to ice cream?

“We could go somewhere quieter and get a drink and talk,” James suggests as they walk slowly down the darkened street through downtown.

“I’m staying at the Doubletree, you could just come up for a drink and we could talk,” James can almost see Paul shove away the awkwardness of saying that sentence aloud, but his stomach jumps at the thought and despite everything he’s ever told his little sister about being careful and not going home with strange men he doesn’t actually hesitate.

“Yea,” James shakes his head and grins, “yea I could.”

They walk companionably through the lobby and ride to the fifth floor, shoulders pressed lighting together as they stand side-by-side against the back wall of the elevator.

“I don’t usually do this,” James confesses when the door closes behind them. Standing this close together they’re almost the same height which means he can just tip forward to capture Paul’s lips with his.

“Me neither,” Paul pulls back slightly and slides a hand against the warm skin of James’ side. “But I think we can probably figure it out.”

James groans and crashes their mouths together when Paul loops 2 fingers in his belt loops and yanks their hips together. They make out against the door for long enough that James’ lips start to tingle a little bit with beard burn. 

It’s nothing compared to the jolt that slides down his spine when Paul sets his teeth to his neck. The combination of teasing nips and the rough skip of Paul’s beard across sensitive skin combined with feather-light open-mouthed kisses. James feels a little like his brain is going to straight white-out from sensory overload.

He manages to push back enough to catch Paul’s mouth with his again and push off from the door a little bit. The room is lit by a single lamp left on in the corner, it provides basically enough light to prevent them from killing themselves on a pair of discarded black dress shoes and for James to successfully push Paul onto the sprawling king-sized bed that takes up a big chunk of the room.

Once he’s there though James isn’t entirely sure what to do with all of Paul’s lanky limbs spread out underneath him and his hesitation is rewarded with Paul yanking him back down on top of him, sliding a hand to rest just under his shirt and pressing their lips together again.

They struggle with their shirts and when Paul’s clever hands start working on his belt James takes a minute to self-consciously wish he was wearing flip-flops so he wouldn’t have to debate whether or not to take his socks off. In the end they do the awkward getting-naked dance [including socks] and James manages to be completely awkward in the stripping of his pants and socks and he sends up a quick prayer to the hockey gods and the sex gods and any other god that’s up there listening that Paul finds his failboat self to be endearing and adorable instead of totally awkward.

Paul tosses a clear bottle and 2 condoms on the bed and confirms that sentiment by wrapping a hand around James’ bare hip, just above his plaid boxers, thumb pressing hard into the thin skin above the bone and it’s a simple touch but one that makes James feel remarkably like there’s an elephant planted on his chest.

"Nuuggghhh," he presses against the hand on his hip and Paul smirks against the thin skin of his neck. The hand Paul doesn't have on his hip slips from the short hair on the back of James’ neck to wrap around his dick. James tips his head back on a gasp, and Paul sits up enough to get his teeth on James’ neck and bite down.

Paul laughs softly, and it’s so strikingly comfortable that James forgets the 900 things his internal monologue is worrying about, takes a deep breath and presses their smiles together just for one minute. 

He slips his tongue in Paul’s mouth and just as quickly the lighthearted moment ends and Paul’s letting go of his dick and swallowing his squawk of protest and rolling him onto his back and together they’re shoving at the aforementioned plaid boxers until James gives one almighty toe flip and flings them across the room. Paul hovers over him, moving a hand down to cup his balls, then back to catch quickly across James’ hole. James moans and shifts his legs wider apart to make room.

“I want you,” Paul’s voice is quiet and steady in the dark, a calm counterpoint to the thunder of James’ heart and the fingertip Paul’s already teasing inside him.

James doesn’t do this a ton. He does it, he’s a good looking 22-year-old college hockey player with above average hair, he does have some semblance of game and he’s not a virgin by any stretch of the imagination. But his hooking up skills are directly related to his picking up skills, which is to say that more often than not he makes do with his own fingers and the half-empty bottle of lube hidden between the wall and the edge of his mattress. 

This is a million times better than any solo endeavor. Paul’s mouth slots over his, his beard tickles the tender skin of James’ neck and the wiry muscles in his shoulders flex under James’ hands as he eases James open, one hand still pressed tight against his hip.

He arches off the bed when Paul nonchalantly slides his fingers against his prostate. Paul laughs softly, brushes their mouths together, adds more lube and does it again.

When James is panting and swearing and sweating just a little Paul leans back, all smooth lines and fluid movements and hair spiked haphazardly from the tug of James’ questing fingers. This time his hands shake a little when he rips open the condom and slicks it on, but they’re steady when he hitches James’ legs up to wrap around his hips. James draws a deep breath as Paul fills him in one long, slow slide.

When Paul bottoms out he tips forward to press their lips together again and the motion changes the angle just enough to take James’ breath away. They rock together slowly at first, lips pressing against each other when they have the opportunity and the quiet sounds of skin sliding against skin echoing through the otherwise quiet room.

Paul focuses on long even strokes and James focuses on not coming in the first 12 seconds. Because he wants this to last. He wants hours of Paul’s smooth strokes and stupid, spiked hair and acres of fair skin and an unexpected smattering of freckles across his shoulders.

When James finally comes he buries his groan in the pillow that is somehow next to, but not under, his head. Paul follows him over the edge a few scant minutes later and he rests his head on James’ shoulder just for a minute breathing unevenly. He slides out slowly and James sucks the corner of the pillowcase into his mouth and proceeds to choke at the sudden loss. And because post-coital he is super smooth the choking makes him laugh and the laughing makes him cough and pretty soon he and Paul are laying on the bed and Paul’s chuckling and James is laughing and coughing so hard he’s practically crying. 

After they settle down and he can breathe again Paul drops a kiss on his lips stands up and James rolls onto his back and tries to catch his breath. Paul disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a pair of boxer briefs on, a towel half drenched in warm water and a glass of water.

James swipes at his stomach, drinks half the glass of water in 3 gulps and stands on shaking legs to pull his boxers back on. He’s not super experienced at one-night stands, but he’s relatively sure that mostly they don’t result in sex so good that you have to lean against the wall to put on your boxers.

He hesitates for just a minute, standing there with his boxers on while Paul reaches toward the light, trying to decide between crawling back into the big comfortable bed and succumbing to the heavy sleepiness threatening to take over post-orgasm or not being the guy who stays the night when he’s supposed to disappear into the darkness.

Paul smiles, like he can read the indecision in the crease in his forehead, grabs a tshirt from the chair next to the bed and flips the covers back on both sides of the bed. James scrubs a hand through his hair and flops down on his stomach on the mattress, already halfway to sleep.

* * *

“Hey,” James is a little fuzzy and disoriented when he lifts his head from the pillow and finds himself in a still mostly-dark room that is definitely not his. The heavy hand resting on his back is really relaxing though and the sheets on the bed are way cleaner than the sheets on his bed at home.

“I have an early flight,” Paul’s perched on the edge of the bed, sadly fully dressed but wearing a pair of glasses that James 100% cannot process before sunrise. “You don’t have to get up - checkout’s not till 11 and that’s practically six hours from now.”

James rolled onto his back and laying there he tries to focus. The light in the bathroom is on and it lends a weird set of shadows to both the room and Paul’s face and all James really wants is for him to ditch the clothes [but keep the glasses], come back to bed and cuddle and sleep for at least two more tequila shots.

Paul’s phone buzzes in his pocket and James has time to reach up and tug him down to tangle their tongues one more time before he’s standing up from the bed, slinging his briefcase over his shoulder and pulling his suitcase out the door.

After Paul leaves everything is quiet and James is weirdly lonely, He tries to take advantage of a room with no roommates and a bed that isn’t his and a huge stack of soft pillows. But after about 40 minutes of listening to the air conditioning kick on and turn off it becomes clear that falling asleep again is a lost cause. Instead he drinks about half a gallon of water straight out of the faucet in the bathroom and collects his clothes from the back of the desk chair, pulls the hood of his hoodie over his head, drops the Do Not Disturb sign on top of the low dresser and heads for home.

He’s halfway home when he realizes that not only does he have no way to get ahold of Paul, he doesn’t even know his last name.

* * *

When James comes back to the Cities after summer break there’s a bunch of new bars and clubs open around school and in celebration of being back and of being upperclassman and of the few short days of summer remaining he and his friends dedicate themselves to thoroughly checking them out before classes start.

It’s their last night of freedom and he’s out with a big group at some club with a weird name when James spots Paul across the packed dance floor. He has to blink, because his hair is long from the summer and his alcohol tolerance is up from cottaging, but it’s still so unexpected to actually see him that it feels a little like tequila is messing with his subconscious.

James can’t decide how to play it cool. He’s saved from the internal war by Elsie, who drags him into the middle of the crowd on the dance floor and performs a set of disco dance moves so corny that he actually laughs so hard he snorts. 

He loses himself a little bit in the dancing [and in the tequila] letting himself be content to move with the crowd and not think very much. 

It’s apparent that this time Paul’s the drunk one. James is waiting in line for the bathroom, letting the wall outside hold him up while he waits, when Paul appears in front of him and plants his hands heavily on either side of James’ head.

James spends one panicked second trying to decide whether to ask what the fuck he’s doing or just say hi. But he doesn’t even have time to get the first consonant out. Which is good, because he’s still trying to decide which one it’s going to be, when all the memories he has of any of the letters of the alphabet are wiped away with one swipe of Paul’s tongue, warm and real and tinged with the sweetness of soda and the sharp bite of vodka.

James thought about kissing Paul all summer. He thought about it while he was lifting and running and skating and laying alone in his childhood bed remembering warm skin and slow developing grins. He wants to take all the time now. He knows what it’s like to have and what it’s like not to have. And while Paul’s right here, actually touching him, James wants to memorize the shape of his mouth, the press of his lips, the scratch of his stubble, the absolutely scandalous slide of their tongues against each other. 

But they’re outside a bathroom door, in a dingy club hallway, and soon enough the door to the bathroom slams and a group of people piles out into the narrow space and Paul shoves James toward the bathroom door and steps back to lean against the opposite wall.

Hours later, Paul pushes James up against yet another wall, in his quiet house now, after more shots and dancing and kissing on the dance floor and kissing against a wall in the back of the club and kissing in a dark booth and barely holding himself back from crawling into Paul’s lap on the cab ride back to a house that Paul drunkenly swears is completely roommate free.

There’s nothing but a pair of flipflops and a pair of battered running shoes in the foyer. But that just means there’s nothing on the wall to knock off when Paul slides a thigh between James’ legs and James goes rock hard so fast he has to tip his head back against the wall for a minute while the lightheadedness passes. 

He comes right there, with the muscles on Paul’s thigh shifting against his dick and the dim light of the streetlights filtering through the window beside the door. He can’t even begin to be embarrassed about it after being on edge for what feels like hours. And it turns out OK because Paul’s just as hard as he is and he rests his head against James’ shoulder while James jerks him off, his hand quick and tight and finishing with a wicked twist that makes Paul sink his teeth into James’ shoulder for just a minute when he comes.

Later, after they’ve tumbled sleep-stupid and sex-exhausted upstairs and into bed, James glances down to see the pale skin of Paul’s hand, palm spread wide, sliding along the bare golden skin of James’ stomach. He isn’t trying to start anything, god knows orgasms against the wall and 2 rounds of actual sex on the couch are the most either of them can handle. But just the sight of their bodies pressed together, the surreality of this entire night is a little more than his brain can handle. 

But hard as he tries, and even though the first and second rounds on the couch were separated by a Honey Nut Cheerios break for strength, all James wants to do is sink deeper into the mattress, press back into the warmth of Paul, and sleep.

* * *

James wakes up on what he’s at least relatively sure is a mattress on the floor. Which is kind of awesome, because it’s still August in Minnesota and even under only the sheet he’s really hot and he can stretch his arms over the end of the mattress and the air escaping the vent against the wall is awesome and cool.

He’s three-quarters of the way back to sleep before he realizes that his bed is not nearly this comfortable, not king-sized and definitely not on the floor.

Somewhere, distantly, there’s an alarm going off, an annoying, rhythmic beeping that is just enough to keep James from drifting straight back to sleep. 

“I have to go,” and then there’s that. A voice that 100% doesn’t belong to anyone who lives in his house.

Paul is standing at the foot of the mattress, he’s half-wrapped in a blanket and obviously naked otherwise. His voice is kind of adorably frantic and as he’s shaking his head the alarm blessedly stops going off all on its own. 

James is considering the best method of convincing Paul that the best solution to being awake while the golden light of sunrise is still painting the bare white walls is to come back to bed for more cuddling and maybe the potential of slow, lazy morning sex instead of whatever not-important thing the alarm is for. James’ first class isn’t until 11 because he is a junior who has learned his lesson about classes before 10. Paul shakes his head and starts again. 

“You have to go, because I’m late, and it’s my first day, and late is not what you want to be on your first day.” 

James blinks a couple of times, because there were a lot of words in that sentence and it’s really actually pretty early and he’s not entirely sure why Paul has a house in the Cities when the last time [the only time] he saw him it was definitely in a hotel and he definitely abandoned James there to go to the airport. Not to mention he can’t figure out what Paul is late for.

“So, you actually live here,”

“Kind of,” Paul shrugs and pulls on a pair of black boxers out of an overflowing laundry basket.

“How do you kind of live here,” he tucks a hand behind his head and pointedly doesn’t miss the way Paul’s eyes widen just for a minute at the stretch of skin over bulked up summer muscles.

“I moved here from Madison three days ago,” He grins sheepishly and pulls a towel out of the same basket, folding it in neat efficient motions.

“It’s nice,” James looks around. The room is good sized and boasts a set of big windows overlooking what is probably the backyard and airy vaulted ceilings, but there’s literally nothing in it besides the mattress on the floor, the laundry basket, Paul’s t-shirt from last night, wadded on the floor and James’ pants kicked into some kind of crazy acrobatic pile.

“It’s empty,” Paul corrects, “but it doesn’t matter, because I have to go, so I’m going to go get in the shower and when I get back you’re at least going to be dressed.”

“Maybe I should take a shower with you,” James cocks an eyebrow and leers a little.

“I don’t think that would be especially efficient in this case,” Paul looks out the window and back at James worriedly.

“Conserve water,” James cracks a grin, “shower with a friend.”

“I’ll drop you off at your car on my way,” Paul disappears into the attached bathroom and James is left to consider just how weird this entire situation is.

* * *

James’ mom is a fan of etiquette. She's a fan of knowing the proper response to any situation. She's forever reading newspaper columns and blogs and books that feature things like the proper response when someone mentions their acrimonious divorce, how to handle freakishly bratty children and delinquent teenagers. Also what to do if you find yourself at a dinner party and someone is licking each of the strawberries in the fruit salad. 

James is almost entirely sure that there's no etiquette book anywhere that discusses what you should do when it turns out that the super hot guy you've now hooked up with on two separate and equivalently memorable occasions turns out to also be Dr. Martin, newly hired adjunct professor who just happens to teach the 2 pm History of Western Civilization class you need to graduate. 

Paul stands just to the side of the desk in the front of the lecture hall wearing the same khakis, a crisp white button-down he was wearing when he dropped James off at his car this morning, and a blue blazer he was not wearing this morning, while Dr. Clancy introduces him as Dr. Paul Martin, Bachelor of Arts in History and Masters of Science in History for Teaching and a Masters of Arts in Public History all from St. Cloud State and Doctor of History from the University of Wisconsin. 

James gets distracted midway through and listens with half an ear while Dr. Clancy mentions a bunch of fake academic achievement awards and grants and fellowships and uses a bunch of words like cum laude and dissertation. He spends the next 30 minutes wondering if Paul’s wearing the black boxer briefs he pulled out of the laundry basket 7 hours ago. 

James doesn’t stick around after class to find out how one goes about interacting with someone who assigned a group project and three research papers over the semester, plans to give a cumulative midterm and final and also likes light hair tugging while he’s giving blowjobs, orgasms against the front door and left fingertip-shaped bruises on James’ hips when they had sex on his unfurnished living room floor last night. 

After class he walks out into the late afternoon sunlight and considers his options before settling on pulling his phone out of his pocket and texting Mikey to meet him for lunch. 

Linemates are good for a lot of things. They’re good for bailing you out on errant stretch passes and making beautiful tape-to-tape passes and also for confessing that it turns out that you’ve hooked up with the new professor in the History department. Twice.

Mikey laughs so hard that OJ comes out his nose. James hates him with a passion and would gladly take a demotion to the third line to never have to see his face again.

In the end they agree over mostly nutritional lunch choices in the cafeteria that the best course of action is to play it cool and try not to go home with any more potential college professors for the rest of the semester.

* * *

Two weeks into the semester coach makes them go to all their professors and give them a copy of their travel schedule and explain that the expectation is always that they’ll do any necessary classwork, homework or tests before the days that they’ll be missing.

James saves Paul for last. 

“Are we not going to talk about it?”

“I’m not sure what to say.” Paul sets his glasses down on the desk, which is nice because James can mostly focus on not jumping him when he isn’t wearing the glasses, “I think it’s pretty clear that I can’t be the guy in the bar anymore and you can’t be the guy who came home with me. You’re a student. I’m your teacher. ” 

“You realize I’m not actually jailbait, right?” James sprawls in the chair.

“What?” Paul glances up from the papers James handed him.

“I’m 22 years old, the age of consent in Minnesota is like 13, it’s not like you’re 20 years old than me.”

“Be that as it may, it isn’t happening again. You’re a student, I’m your teacher, there’s about 30 rules that we’ve already broken and we can’t break them again.”

“OK,” James draws it out, “well, I play hockey, that’s our schedule and a little note which classes I’ll be missing for travel and how I’ll do my homework before we leave.” He slaps his hand lightly on the desk and walks out, because out of all the ways he expected that to go, that really wasn’t the one he was hoping for.

Hockey season starts for real in mid-October and, for once, it starts with a pretty healthy run of home games and games that are pretty close to home [minus Wisconsin, but trips to Madison are practically a rite of passage at this point and an opportunity to torment the underclassman outside of their normal habitat.] 

All this means that it’s midway through the semester and the team is 7-0-4 by the time James finds himself standing outside Dr. Martin’s office wishing that he needed clarification on something other than the paper he’s writing on the evolution of technology in the Greek city states.

“James,” Dr Martin looks about as unclear on how to handle this conversation as James feels, which is comforting but also makes James wonder if he shouldn’t have made more of an effort not to be totally awkward weeks ago instead of scooting into the lecture hall seconds before class starts and darting out as soon as it ends.

They have 5 minutes of stilted small-talk conversation about classes and the weather and then 15 minutes of completely riveting conversation about the direction of James’ paper. Dr. Martin manages to compliment his progress, refine his thesis and make some recommendations on secondary sources without batting an eye and James’ wrist cramps from trying to fill a page in his notebook with the suggestions that will probably make meeting the page limit and editing a thousand times easier.

James can’t help the easy grin that slides across his face when he gets up to leave. He’s suddenly inspired and enthusiastic about a paper that he hated half an hour ago and the rain cloud of doom and gloom he was carrying around has mostly receded to a low level panic.

“So we’re playing Bemidji State on Friday,” James pauses, hand on the doorframe, bag slung over his shoulder and looks back where Paul has turned to his computer. “You should come by, see what Gopher hockey is all about.”

Paul flushes a little at the invitation, “Thanks for asking,” he smiles a little and James leans a little harder on the door, “I might see you there.”

“Watch for 18,” James grins wickedly and pushes off the door and out into the hallway, “he’s got great hands.”

Paul’s startled laughter follows him down the hall.

* * *

The game against Bemidji is a slug-fest. James thinks, as they’re traipsing back into the locker room between periods, that maybe he should have invited Paul to a different game, a game where they could have just taken over, instead of this nail-biting, heavy-hitting, thus far scoreless affair.

James isn’t on the ice in the third when one of the freshman Gophers cleanly picks the pocket of the Bemidji defender and slams the puck shelf-high and into the back of the net. But he’s on the ice 12 seconds later to clear the puck from the crease and play dump and chase to burn the time off the clock.

The last 10 minutes are a grind. The Gophers aren’t weak on defense but they’re young. James can feel the internal struggle of inexperience threatening to panic from everyone on the ice. But Lucia keeps rolling 4 lines out on the ice and trusting them to play defense. 

And when the horn sounds and the Mariucci crowd goes crazy with the victory James throws himself into the pile to celebrate and when they salute the crowd at center ice he sees Paul, wearing jeans and a gray henley standing with a group of professors and other university-type people and cheering.

His heart absolutely does not skip a beat.

* * *

They continue to dance around each other.

James starts raising his hand and answering questions in class occasionally and Paul becomes more of a fixture at hockey games and occasionally compliments him on a goal or reaches for a fist bump when they’re working in groups at the tables in the back of the room.

When James has a complete and utter meltdown about midterms he leaves Paul a mostly panicked voicemail in which he concludes that he’s going to fail and lose his scholarship and lose hockey [he manages to stop just short of adding something about living in a van down by the river but it’s a close thing.]

He leaves his cell phone number at the end of the message and when his phone bounces across the table in the library he clings to the text-message distraction like a lifeline.

Paul’s matter-of-fact, complete sentences texting is weirdly reassuring and James takes a deep breath, finishes his studying, sends Paul a quick thanks and a monkey emoticon and goes home to pass out in his bed alone for 15 straight hours.

They build a kind of rickety texting relationship from there, their conversations are filled with James’ lazy text speak and Paul’s exacting punctuation and a heaping dose of completely random emoticons. James stays up late to find new and increasingly random emoticon apps to download onto his phone and Paul overuses the only 3 smileys he knows. In between, Paul reminds him to do his homework and James complains about lifting and paper writing and a bone bruise on the inside of his ankle that isn’t bad enough to keep him off the ice but is just annoying enough to make him cranky. 

Somehow they become actual friends who talk about their lives and their families and the overwhelming stack of tests Paul has to grade and the paper James has to write in between practices. Paul offers to loan him a book to use as a primary source for his final paper and James finds himself in the vicinity of Paul’s house on a Saturday afternoon and offers to swing by and pick it up.

There are pictures in the foyer of Paul’s house now. Barstools around the bar and a big TV and an overstuffed couch in the living room. James raises an eyebrow at the changes and Paul blushes just for a minute.

“We’re pretending,” he sets the book on the counter and gestures toward the couch in the family room, “that you’ve never been here before.”

“OK,” James smiles amenably, “so I’m also pretending I don’t know where your bedroom is.”

“Yes, 100% yes,” Paul takes a huge drink from a glass of water on the end table and ends up choking, “we’re having a scholarly discussion, about Greeks and civilization.” He shakes his head a little, “no sex.”

James plasters an exaggerated frown on his face just for a minute before agreeing.

They talk easily until the sun goes down and Paul offers to order Chinese food. It’s a rare Saturday off for James and he’s happy to burrow deeper into Paul’s criminally comfortable couch, watch the highlights on ESPN on low in the background and accept sweet and sour wontons and fried rice in styrofoam containers.

“There isn’t a lot of time for dating,” Paul shrugs and pulls 2 beers out of the fridge when James mocks him for his decided lack of a social life. He kicks teasingly at James’ stocking feet propped on the coffee table before settling down on the opposite side of the couch with his Kung Pao beef, “four years of college, 2 of grad school and four more years of doctoral work, plus writing your dissertation, teaching and trying to figure out why on earth you’re possibly doing any of it.”

James takes a sip of his beer and gestures for him to continue. “You kind of forget how to be a human, it’s all teach classes and grade papers and write and plan and publish and be an advisor and then when you can’t wring anymore words out of your fingers, write some more.”

“So why do it,” James spreads the condensation out across the bar.

“Teaching,” Paul says simply, and James can’t argue with the ease at which he makes that statement.

When he finally leaves it’s almost 11, they’ve had 2 beers a piece, completely demolished the Chinese food, watched Sportscenter twice all the way through and James presses a light kiss to the corner of Paul’s mouth when he’s pulling his hat on and heading out to his car.

He completely forgets the book.

* * *

The Gophers play in Denver on consecutive nights in mid-December. It’s kind of a stupidly long haul because it’s close to finals and they’re trying not to miss too many classes so they skate for an hour mid-morning at Mariucci and then head straight for the airport, it’s a 2 hour flight, back to back games and a late flight back. 

The team wins 5-2 on Friday night and James and Mikey exchange assists on each other’s goals. It feels awesome, it always seems like school and hockey all ramp up at the same time and it takes James a couple of weeks to remember how to do it all, how to get to classes and practice and eat and get his ass to study tables so he can actually get his homework done. 

He always gets in trouble during those weeks where he’s trying to find his equilibrium again because he somehow manages to forget that he’s working out for basically 3 hours everyday and starts dropping weight like crazy and that leads down the high-calorie protein shake road and no matter how many times he brushes his teeth his mouth starts to have a permanent chocolate flavored metallic tinge.

Post-victory in Denver they go out for a late team dinner and by the time they head back to the hotel they’re all stuffed with gigantic steak dinners and tired from a day of travel followed by hockey. A bunch of the upperclassmen throw on standard issue team sweatpants and t-shirts and pile into someone’s hotel room and play Mario Kart until none of them can keep their eyes open.

Wandering back to their room Mikey pokes his head into one of the freshman’s room and finds about 8 guys in various shades of totally asleep all piled on 2 queen beds.

“Dudes,” James grins, because Mikey can’t help himself, he was practically born with the A on, “I know you’re all warm and tired and comfortable, but trust me when I tell you that about three quarters of you will be happier if you stumble back to your own rooms and sleep in your own beds.”

“He’s right,” James grins, “learn from our mistakes, it’s comfortable now, but when you wake up at 3 am without a pillow and somebody’s toes in your ribcage it isn’t going to be quite as comfortable.”

Mikey and James have been road roommates since freshman year, they’re so ingrained in each other’s routines that last year when Mikey was out for 3 games James actually had trouble sleeping because he felt so out of sorts without Mikey’s measured breathing in the bed next to him.

The next night is a complete and utter clusterfuck. They go down 2 in the first 8 minutes and all of a sudden their age is showing. There’s 7 guys on the team with at least 2 years of experience but even those 7 guys can’t manage to shut down the panic of the other 17 guys. So suddenly a 2 goal deficit is the end of the world and in an attempt to settle things down James is double shifting on the third line and Mikey on the fourth line and Carman’s doing his very best to corral his 2 sophomore wingers and all the young guys are coming to the bench after their shifts looking a couple of seconds away from bursting into tears.

They give up 2 more and by the time they’re stripping out of gear and showering and piling back on the bus for the airport James is so fucking tired he can actually see spots in front of his eyes. He’s asleep before the plane takes off and doesn’t even have the energy to say anything other than a fist-bump with his linemates when they all split for their cars at MSP.

He turns on his phone while he’s waiting for his car to warm up and sorts through the drunk texts and the sympathy texts and is only a little surprised when a text from Paul pops up. It’s time stamped 20 minutes ago and isn’t anything special, just a note about being sorry for the loss and the shitty game. James doesn’t hesitate before he’s texting him a quick thanks back and chirping him for still being up at almost 2 in the morning.

The defroster has finally started doing some actual work and James hops out to scrape the windows and curse that he didn’t choose to go to college in Florida or Bermuda or somewhere that features miles of white sand instead of snow. By the time he’s back in the car Paulie’s confessed that he’s totally sucked into some insane thing on the History channel that isn’t over for another hour.

James’ car basically drives itself to Paulie’s.

“You should really lock the front door,” Paulie’s stretched out on the couch in sweats and a hoodie, his hair’s all stupid and he’s wearing the kryptonite glasses. He scrambles for the remote to pause the TV and looks surprised to see James standing in his living room.

“What,” Paulie trails off looking past James like he’s expecting more people to suddenly appear in his house in the middle of the night.

“I’m not here for sex,” James shrugs, “but I’m also not here for a book. I just don’t want to sleep alone.”

Paulie smiles softly at that and James is tired, and sore, and despite the fact that he’s a relatively experienced college athlete losing still sucks and he can’t be held responsible for the fact that the only solution at this moment is to kick off his shoes and take the 5 steps necessary to curl next to Paul’s warm, soft body on the couch. 

“I locked the front door,” James wraps an arm around Paulie’s waist, nuzzles his cheek against his shoulder and curls under the blanket. Paul rests a hand heavy in the center of his back and presses play on the DVR. And there with Paulie’s hand rubbing firm circles on his back James finally lets his body relax.

Later Paulie will bully him through the darkened hallway and up the stairs and force him out of his button down and dress pants and into a bed that now boasts a frame and a headboard and warm flannel sheets, and a sinfully thick and fluffy down comforter. Paulie will brush his teeth and climb in the other side of the bed and James will fall asleep exactly where he wants to be and exactly where he isn’t supposed to be.

In Paulie’s arms.

* * *

“When you worry you get a little wrinkle right here,” James pressed his lips against the side of Paul’s head before smoothing his thumb over the wrinkled skin above his eyebrow, rolling the shallow indentation away.

“I just,” Paulie sighs, “this is a terrible idea and we should stop this train before it gets any further down the track.”

“No,” James pulled Paul tighter into the space between his legs.

“No,” Paul struggled lightly against him, pushing ineffectively against his bent knees.

“No,” James wrapped his arms around Paulie’s waist and rested his chin lightly on his shoulder, “I’m going to leave in 20 minutes. I’m going to eat the last piece of bacon, kiss you one more time and we’re not going to do this for the rest of the semester. I’m not going to stop by for secret sex, or ravish you in the supply closet. I’m going to sit in the back of your classroom and try not to think about what you’re wearing under your professor clothes and you’re going to wear the kryptonite glasses and make me crazy and when I’m writing papers in the middle of the night I’m going to curse your name.”

Paul relaxes fractionally and rests a hand on James’ bent knee, “and in January we’ll be free to have all the secret sex we want.”

Paulie draws a deep breath and James rushes to continue before he can interject. “It’s not that hard to keep a secret, dude, I promise. It’s a big campus, It’s not like your my advisor, you’re a professor I’m going to have for one semester, 3 credits, out of all the credits in I need to graduate you’re only like 2%.”

“And what, you’ll be my secret boyfriend until after graduation and then we’ll move somewhere where no one knows us and live happily ever after?”

“What if we do?” James shoves off the couch now and paces the carpet, “what if we give it an actual try. And if we survive the next year and a half, keep the secret and still like each other we can see where it goes from there. I like you, I like talking to you and being with you and touching you. I don’t need public displays of affection and adoration. I don’t need to see you in the stands with my name plastered across my back. I just want you.”

Paul levers himself off the couch and presses their lips together, standing barefoot in the living room surrounded by the flat gray of winter in Minnesota.

And James allows himself to think, just for one moment, that it’s just his luck that he’s going to fall in love with his Western Civ professor.

* * *

Their relationship doesn't progress exactly the way James predicted.

They aren’t that good at staying away from each other. They mostly survive not being in the same place, but sometimes they have scorchingly hot, completely not allowed, phone sex. And their texting definitely veers into the slightly inappropriate more often than it ever did before. And on one occasion, spurned by stress, expectations, a four game scoring streak and a complete and utter lack of self control, James slams into Paul’s house and crowds him against the wall and makes out with him until his lips are almost raw, there’s beard burn on his neck and one perfect outline of Paul’s mouth just behind his ear.

But they make it. 

James gets a solid B is Paul’s class and when the Spring semester rolls around they see each other at least twice a week in a non-classroom format. They’re still mostly careful, avoiding places where people might know them and spending a fair amount of time working together at the bar in the kitchen, cuddling on Paulie’s couch and then going upstairs and having actual, mostly-non-drunken, but still crazy awesome, sex.

What nobody actually predicted is for James to suddenly start playing the best hockey of his life. Suddenly he’s scoring goals and racking up assists and becoming a vocal leader in the locker room despite the lack of a letter on his jersey. It’s like now that he and Paulie have finally sorted out their shit there’s nothing to do but play kick ass hockey and work his ass off at school. 

* * *

James waits until after the season ends his senior year before thinking really seriously about answering the call of the NHL, he’s done the prospect camp thing a couple of times, accepted invitations as no pressure situations. He’s never been embarrassed by how he performed but he’s never been offered a roster spot either. This time the weight of all the invitations he’s getting feels seriously overwhelming.

In the end he goes to Penguins camp and surprises everyone with his skills and signs a free agent deal. And if anyone asks it certainly isn’t because there are literally 25 colleges in the metropolitan Pittsburgh area. 

He becomes James Neal, perennial 30-goal scorer and second line winger for the Pittsburgh Penguins.

In the room he’s Nealsy, Nealer and The Real Deal. But without much fanfare he’s also James, partner of Paul.

They survive Paul teaching 3 survey classes at Pitt, grading 350 midterms and writing so many journal articles that sometimes his eyes cross. They survive concussions and goal scoring droughts, infinite winning joy and crushing playoff defeat.

In the summer they close up the house in Pittsburgh and wander off to Canada and the cabin on the lake it took them 2 agonizing years to agree on. It features simple, clean architecture that blends in with the shoreline scenery, a home gym with a view of the water and a study for Paul that has a fireplace and is filled with more books than could ever fit in the bookshelves that line the walls.

At 26 James does a You Can Play spot and Paul writes a book on Greek city states.

At 28 James takes the hometown discount, a 7 year deal and Paul applies for tenure.

On his 29th birthday, they get married, barefoot on the dock, 3 days before they head back to Pittsburgh.

The beauty of it all, James thinks in the depths of January, after the first round of tenure interviews and a 5 game road trip, is that while he never actually imagined he’d get here, he can’t imagine being anywhere else, or doing anything else or loving anyone else.


End file.
